


A Dream of Spring

by raiyana



Series: Prince of Greenwood [5]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Grief/Mourning, I can't believe that is a real tag, Reconciliation Sex, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-01 20:53:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14528967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: A memory of long ago awakens the Queen of GreenwoodTA 1





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story may make more sense if you read the Dagorlad Prologue, ["Calm before the Storm"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14529171/), first.   
> Slightly inspired by this image (NSFW)

“But why are we having a feast?”

Nínimeth laughed. She forgot, sometimes, that her husband had not been born to the forest, that he had come from the west, beyond the Misty Mountains along with his kin, forgot that there were traditions that her people still held to, even though those who had gone West had forgotten the ways of the great forests.

“Because of the Lady,” she smiled. “She who is the love of the Great Hunter and whose footsteps bring the flowers to bloom…  you did not have this?” Doriath, to her, was a strange land – even visiting Eregion was not so strange as to hear him speak of his first home, for there the Sindar were mingled with the Noldor and some of the Laiquendi among them, kin of her own peoples.

“Vána?” he asked, catching up with her. “But she is not one of the Aratar… should you not be celebrating Yavanna, the Life-Giver?”

“We praise Yavanna for bountiful harvests, but this… this is a time for lovers,” Nínimeth laughed, “although more than one life may _begin_ this week.” She winked at him, watching the blush spread across his cheeks as he caught her meaning.

“So you… lie together?” he wondered, taking her hand.

“Is that not what lovers do?” she wondered, leaning in to kiss him. “There will be dancing, also, and music – I will try not to step on your toes if you want to do some of your Sindar dances.” She blushed slightly, tugging him along and weaving through the trees – she’s very fond of those dances, even if keeping herself from stepping on him is challenge at times, too lost in the feel of his arms around her, the blue depths of his eyes shining with joy.

“And you do this… every year?” he asked, frowning suddenly in a way she did not like. Turning to face him fully, she stepped closer, worried when he drew away from her touch.

“Of course we hold this feast every year,” she replied, pulling back her hand slowly, tilting her head and staring at him. “What troubles you, my love?” she asked softly.

“How many?” he asked, his eyes suddenly stormy, crossing his arms over his chest.

“How many what?” Nínimeth wondered, confused by his sudden anger. A muscle in his jaw works furiously, the fingers of his right hand flexing like he’d like to grip something.

“ _How many lovers?_ ” he hissed, failing to mask the hurt in his voice as he glared at her.

“Oh,” she murmured, understanding flooding into her mind like a swift arrow piercing her heart. “Oh, my Hwin, my Thranduil, is that what troubles you?” She wanted to laugh, two light steps bringing her back to him, trapping his dear face between her hands. “I love you,” she said, “only you. Husband.”

“How many?” he gritted out between clenched teeth.

“Over the years?” she asked, wondering if she ought to lie. The tightness in his neck when he nodded made her think she should, but she knew she could not, even though the answer would pain him. She had been _his_ first, after all, another way his kin were different to her peoples. Nínimeth sighed. “Twenty-two,” she said – some years, she had not wanted to take part in the ritual, and some of her partners had been repeat pleasures – shrugging lightly. To her mind, it changed nothing, but the way he staggered backwards, pulling away from her, made it clear that it mattered to _Thranduil_. “Hwin, please,” she whispered, reaching for him, trying to make him understand, “it doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t matter?” he laughed brokenly. “ _Doesn’t matter?_ ”

“No,” she said, pulling back her hand when he flinched away from her. “It doesn’t matter.” _Did he not know?_

“You tell me you were wed before, and then you go and say it doesn’t matter?!” he cried. “How long, then, before _this_ ,” he gestured at the empty space between them, “ _doesn’t matter?_ Perhaps I should simply leave-”

“Not wed!” she yelled back at him, angry now, and scared on top of that; losing him would be like losing part of herself. “I have wed only _you_ , no one else!” Stalking towards him, she gripped the front of his shirt, yanking him back to her and smashing her lips against his.

At first, he was stiff beneath her hands, but then his anger changed focus, and he gripped her tight enough to leave bruises on her hips, his fingers pressing into her arse, lifting her until she wrapped her legs around his hips. Kissing him deeply, desperation and anger making it nearly savage, Nínimeth rubbed herself against his front, feeling him press into her hip.

He clutched her, one hand moving up to tangle in her long hair, pulling tight against her skull as his tongue sought to erase any possible memory of another from her mouth, biting at her lip hard enough to taste blood.

“You’re _mine_.”

Growling, she attacked his clothes, suddenly desperate to feel his skin. Ripping the thin tunic apart, she pinched one nipple, scratching her nails down his stomach until she reached the waistband of his leggings. Beneath her, Thranduil groaned, the hand not wrapped in her red tresses exacting vengeance for his tattered clothes, stealing the knife from the sheath strapped to her thigh and splitting the seam that ran along the crack of her arse, pulling her leggings apart with a single savage yank.

“ _Mine_.”

Thrusting into her slick flesh, suddenly throbbing with need, he groaned, growling into her mouth, but Nínimeth did not slow down, wrapping her strong legs around his hips, her hands keeping his head where she wanted it, fingers tangled in loose pale locks. Panting between biting kisses, she moved on him, meeting every hard thrust with one of her own, sparks of pleasure busting before her eyes every time he hit that spot inside her.

“What is my name, _Thranduil_?” she hissed, wrapping her lips around the tip of his ear, biting the sensitive flesh once. His hips stuttered, a low keening growl issuing from his mouth, half-muffled in her chest. “Tell me!” Attacking the leaf-like point with her tongue, she made him gasp out a moan, clutch her tight as he thrust into her flesh.

“ _Nínimeth_ ,” he groaned, “Nínimeth, please…”

The sound of her name – the name _he_ had given her, making her _his_ – pushed her over the edge, her soul slamming into his as it took flight, pleasure tightening every muscle in her body and pulling him into the starlight with her.

She returned to herself to find him on his knees, still hard inside her body. One hand remained tangled in her hair, the other had fallen down lie on her thigh, his fingers playing with the torn fabric.

“Only you,” she whispered, kissing tears off his cheeks only to have more fall from her own eyes to land on his face.

“Never leave me,” he replied hoarsely, chasing her lips with kisses that were soft now, nearly pleading.

“You named me, Hwin,” she murmured softly, returning his kisses, “I am always your wife.” Running her fingers down his body, gentling stroking where before she had clawed, Nínimeth kissed him. “It was simply pleasure exchanged, nothing more,” she murmured, kissing her way along his jaw-line, “none of them could have given me this – they were not _you_.” His arms tightened around her, and she felt him jump inside her, shuddering a little at the pleasure of it when her lips found his ear.

“I love you,” Thranduil said, pressing a kiss against her ear. “And I still want to kill every single ellon who has had you, no matter how little it may have meant.”

“My husband… so possessive,” she hummed, rocking slowly against him, feeling him swell inside her. Lifting her head, she grinned at him, “You are the only ellon I would want to be my son’s Adar.” Stealing his surprised gasp in a deep kiss, Nínimeth drew back with a chuckle.

“…What?” he spluttered, but she felt his hips twitch against her.

Nínimeth laughed, hiding her face against his neck and kissing the burn scars there softly. “Not yet, perhaps,” she admitted, “I rather fancy you all to myself for now… but one day we shall have children, my love.”

“Nínimeth…” Thranduil groaned.

“Perhaps we shall make one during the Spring Festival…” she teased, feeling him speed up slightly, rocking into her body in the best way possible – he might not have done this with others, but she had no complaints about his skill at bringing her pleasure. Moaning at a particularly pleasant move, she put her hands on either side of his head once more, making him look up at her, feeling breathless as the love shining in his blue-grey eyes. “I love you. My Thranduil.”

Keeping his eyes locked on hers, Thranduil moved, pressing her back against the soft grass, his shoulders flexing with each thrust of his hips, holding his weight with arms that trembled when she clenched around him. Nínimeth smiled, reaching up to caress his ruined cheek, and pulled him down for a kiss. Looking at him, letting him read every twitch of pleasure on her face, Nínimeth reached for the brightness that was his soul, twining around it and feeling the bond between them flare, the brightness in her mind increasing with the speed of their hips moving.

“Nínimeth…” he whispered, her name a plea and a blessing all at once, a clever twist of fingers sending her hurtling over the edge, her world nothing but white-hot pleasure and the sight of his eyes, filling her with love and joy. _You’re mine, my own, my wife_.

_And you’re mine. My love, my-_

“Thranduil!” she cried out, sitting up straight in her bed, staring at the carved stone walls, seeing only soft blue eyes and memory.

“My Queen?” Avornien asked, rising from the divan in the corner where she had been sewing.

“No-nothing, mellon,” Nínimeth muttered, wanting to weep for the beauty of her dream. “I… I am going to take a walk.”

“Would you like company?” Avornien replied, looking up sharply. Nínimeth shook her head.

“No… I…” Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed _he_ had not slept in since _that day,_ Nínimeth nearly staggered as the grief for her firstborn attempted to swallow her mind once more. “I don’t.”

 _At least,_ she thought, _the company I want is not Avornien’s._

Slipping a soft blue dress over her head, she nearly cursed at the feeling of the fabric against her skin, still filled with the promise of release from her dreams.

Leaving her rooms, she dithered on the spot, indecisiveness filling her; apprehension, too, and guilt stronger than she had felt before. Finding herself in the kitchens, following her nose to the tray of fresh bread-rolls, Nínimeth took one, slathering a goodly amount of jam onto the bread. Eating as she walked through the halls, she thought hard, trying to decide how to make amends.

_You killed my son!_

Hearing the words she had screamed at him, echoing in her mind with each footstep, the Queen of Greenwood walked aimlessly through the halls. A new home for a new age, Rhonith had called it, stonemasons from Dwarrowdelf carving out a stronghold for her shattered people. The castle on Amon Lanc had been destroyed by the Enemy, leaving only a blackened ruin where once had been the seat of the King of Greenwood. It was small, this system of caves, though the Dwarrow had claimed it could be made bigger, home to only five hundred souls; most of their people still preferred to live in their moving villages, following the herds through the forest – but she was Queen, now, she realised, for the first time feeling the weight of the title break through the shadows that had haunted her since… she would not think of that day, not now, not when she finally felt like she was leaving the darkness.

The Elves moving through the caves nodded at her, and thousands of years as one of the rulers of the land had not prepared her for how she would feel being addressed with Nenglessel’s title. ‘ _My Queen_ ’ they said, as though she deserved to be called so, as though she had _been_ their Queen these past years.

Nínimeth knew better.

Doing her best to smile at those who passed her – _so few, so few left now_ – she felt a wearied sense of surprise that it did not hurt her to recall their losses – at least, it did not hurt as much as it had when she had looked across the plains of Dagorlad.

Banishing the memories that threatened to suck her down into the mire of grief once more, she found herself outside the Throne Room. Squaring her shoulders, she drew in a breath, her mind whirling with thoughts of what she might say to her estranged husband.

“My Queen,” one of the door guards – _such a quaint notion, but her late Adar would probably have approved_ – bowed, opening to door to let her pass. A faint smile lingered on her lips at the thought of Drauchir’s brusquely silent assessment of their security, but when she raised her head it disappeared.

Apprehension gave way to disappointment; the throne was empty. It was an imposing extravagance– a dramatic piece of construction which seemed oddly incongruent with her humorous husband – a display of such theatricality that she wondered at his reasons for making it a reality.

Walking up the steps, Nínimeth picked up the discarded robe that was trailing down from the seat, hanging precariously above the drop below and wondered where she might find its owner. The robe – heavy silks and linen – was new, not something he had worn before the war, preferring simple clothes and at most a decorative overtunic for feast days. With a stab of guilt, she wrapped it around her shoulders – this, too, was her doing, she knew, a retreat from the world made of fabric that ought to have been made by her sheltering arms – enjoying the sent of him that clung to the fabric.

The Throne itself was a wide seat, and when she sank down on the cushion, she finally saw why her Hwin – _how long had it been since she had called him Hwin?_ – had designed the Throne to sit so far above those who came before him. From up here, she was remote, she was safe, aloof and untouched by the grief of those below… _or I might give off the illusion of it anyway_ , she thought wryly, curling up on the cushioned seat and taking a sip from the goblet left half full beside it.

 _Oh, my love_ , she thought, trailing her fingertips along the soft fabric of his robe, _I am sorry_. Burying her face in the soft darkness of the robe, she let his scent envelop her, comfort her as it should have – _would have_ – if she had let him, if she had not pushed him away. Wrapping the robe slightly tighter around her slim shape, Nínimeth leaned against the tall backrest, wondering when her husband would return. She knew that he rarely slept, though she had not cared for a long time, blaming him for all they had lost in the assault that had been Oropher’s folly.

A few tears slipped down her face as she snuggled into the robe, enjoying the familiar scent. _How long has it been since I was last so close to you, Thrand – no, Hwin, you are still my Hwin, I must believe that… I miss you. The real you._ Their people might not see it, but even when her mind had been clouded by anger and furious grief, Nínimeth had known that the ellon they called Thranduil Elvenking was a mask – one he never seemed to shed.

Wrapped in her cocoon of comforting fabric, Nínimeth fell asleep, still wondering how she would mend what she had torn asunder.

 

_…_

_“Nana!” The elfling cried, laughing as he ran away from his adar, hiding behind her legs._

_“What is it, ionneg?” she smiled softly, pressing his red head against her thigh._

_“Ada tickles me!” the boy complained, peeking out from behind her as Hwiniedir made exaggerated sneaking moves which wouldn’t have fooled even a deaf and blind prey animal. Nínimeth laughed. Looking up from his pretend-search, Hwin – she ought to call him Thranduil, he had told her, but she rather liked his first name, feeling like it was a small thing they shared – gave her a brilliant smile._

_“Did you steal your grandfather’s dagger again, Hwinion?” she asked mildly, making her son look up at her, gaping at the way she always knew what mischief he had been up to. Nínimeth raised an eyebrow keeping her face impassive in the face of his mischievous grin. He nodded slowly. Nínimeth sighed, ruffling his hair and smiling to herself. “You know you’re not supposed to play with that, my darling,” she murmured – an heirloom of a long-lost kingdom, but Oropher was inordinately careful with the small weapon that had once belonged to his grey-cloaked King – a small frown aimed in Hwinion’s direction. “And I do believe it is bedtime.” Giving her another wide grin – he knew she wasn’t truly angry – Hwinion darted away from the hiding spot of her legs, burrowing beneath the large bed instead._

_Meanwhile Hwin was pretending to search behind their bed, under chairs and tables, loudly wondering where the little rascal had gone. When he looked up and winked at her, she laughed again._

_She had not thought motherhood could make her so happy, yet to see her husband so playful was… breath-taking._

_“I am afraid, my beloved wife, that our son has become invisible!” Hwin exclaimed theatrically, sinking down on the low sofa. “Well, I haven’t found my mischievous son,” he claimed, flopping back against the cushions with a wink at her, “but perhaps my lady-wife would keep me company instead?”_

_Nínimeth moved, settling herself in his lap, leaning against his chest and kissing his cheek._

_“An invisible son, hervenn?” she whispered, “what a sorrow to have befallen us. How will we ever find our little rascal?” When he wrapped his arms around her, turning the peck into a more passionate kiss, Nínimeth giggled._

_“Here I am!” a young voice called, popping up in front of them._

_“An apparition, my love!” Hwin exclaimed playfully, reaching for his son. Hwinion went easily, clambering into his parents’ hold. The little boy yawned._

_“I wasn’t really ‘visible, Ada,” he mumbled sleepily. “Ju’ hiding… like ‘ranpa!”_

_Nínimeth laughed. Pulling her son close, she wrapped her arms around the small warm body, cradling him against her chest and humming softly, feeling his body go limp with sleep. Hwin’s strong arms were firm around both of them as he kissed her temple, joining her in watching their son’s small face, utterly relaxed in sleep._

_“He is so precious,” Hwiniedir whispered. Nínimeth nodded._

_“I want him to have siblings, Hwin,” she heard herself whisper back, turning her head to look at his blue-grey eyes. He kissed her gently._

_“Yes.”_

…

 

Thranduil stared. The crimson hair flowed across the blue silk of his robe, the robe he’d forgotten on his throne earlier, heading off to meet with Bronwe.

She was asleep, wearing _his_ robe, on _his_ throne.

He could hardly bear to look at her. He felt betrayed by the way she had acted after Dagorlad, the way she blamed him for the loss of Thalion; as if _he_ had not lost his first-born, too!

His heart hurt just seeing the shade of her hair, the perfect match to their son’s.

Anger blazed through him, pushing all thoughts out of his mind.

In three leaps, he had reached the throne, with no idea what he would do when he reached her. Thranduil Elvenking was stopped in his tracks catching sight of her face. The slight smile was a pale imitation of her laughter, the small mewly snore she made when she was dreaming intimately familiar. What truly stayed his hand from reaching to shake her awake, however, was not the light sheen of tears running down her cheek – it was the way she was huddled in his robe, snuggled into it, nearly, her nose buried in a fold of the cloth as she drew in the scent, finding comfort in the smell of… _him_.

“Nínimeth,” he whispered, though not loud enough to wake her. Instead, he reached towards her, carefully shifting her long limbs until she was cradled in his arms, sitting heavily on his finely crafted throne.

_Had his wife returned to him at last?_

“ _Hwin_?” she murmured, not quite awake, and nuzzled against his throat.

Thranduil wept, silent tears sliding down his cheeks before he hid his face in her crimson hair.

“Hwin?” she repeated, her hand resting over his pounding heart. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, when Thranduil found no words to answer the name she had been the only to use for more than a thousand years.

“He was my son,” Thranduil croaked. “ _My son_.”

“I know, Hwin,” she said, trembling against him. “I should not have… I was unfair to you.”

Her own tears wet his clothes and still he could not find it in him to look at her face, at those green eyes – afraid they would be the same black he had seen when she looked at him over the corpse of their son.

“I…” he did not know what to say to her, how to make sense of the storm of emotions whirling through him in that moment. Nínimeth sighed into his throat, her hand stroking gently over his chest, humming the same lullaby she had sung for their sons. “ _Nínimeth_ ,” he wept.

“I am sorry, _hervenn_ ,” she whispered, running her fingers up his chest to cradle his face.

Thranduil stiffened. “I did not think I would hear you call me that again.”

“I know it was not your fault Thalion fell… _goheno nin, meleth-nîn,_ ” Nínimeth said.

Thranduil closed his eyes, swallowing hard. When she moved, his arms tightened, but Nínimeth did not attempt to escape his hold, moving to straddle his legs, wiping away his tears gently before pressing his head forwards to lean against her breast, humming that same lullaby in his ear.  

“I don’t know how,” he confessed. Nínimeth’s arms tightened on his shoulders.

“I cannot tell you, Thranduil,” she replied, running her fingers through his hair, her cheek resting against the top of his head – he could feel her tears soaking through the loose strands.

“Don’t…” he paused, swallowing, his fingers clenched in the robes that swallowed her body, hid her from view, “don’t call me Thranduil. Not you.”

“For a long time, there was naught but darkness in my breast, Hwiniedir,” she whispered, stroking his hair gently. “I could not breathe… So much… grief. The Shadow – everything was so dark; nothing shone a light through the desolation of my heart.”

Thranduil didn’t know if his arms were crushing her or she was crushing herself against him, but when he dared look up, he found familiar green eyes looking back at him, watery with tears but clear; eyes that seemed – for the first time since he had found her holding the corpse of their son – to _see_ him.

“I grieve too,” he said, knowing she would see the pain in his eyes, see through the mask he wore.

“I know,” she whispered, pressing her forehead against his. “I should not have pushed you away; I love you. I am sorry.”

Thranduil could hardly believe his ears, hearing the words he had wished for – _dreamed of_ – for so long admitted out loud.

“I needed you!” he hissed, seeking refuge in anger. Nínimeth nodded, pulling away slightly and he could not bear that either, his arms an unforgiving steel trap around her. “You are my _wife_.”

“I know,” she cried, “I’m sorry, _I’m sorry_.” Her tears soaked into his shoulder, apologies and love spilling from her lips, an explosion of grief long over-due.

“I love you,” he croaked, because he knew that, even if his heart was still ripped to shreds in his breast. before the grief made his shoulders shake with sobs.

The scent of her so close was overwhelming, the emotional release of his pent-up anger and grief overpowering but she clutched him just as tightly as he held her. “I missed you,” he whispered. “You – I – I lost both of you!”

He kissed her. Hard and punishing, the kiss was pure _need_ , need to feel her, to believe that he was not simply dreaming.

For a moment, she was still.

And then she moved.

 

Nínimeth was surprised by the kiss, but even more surprised by the responding _need_ in her own body. She had believed them past this phase of life, but apparently her flesh had other plans. Pressing herself against him, her body remembering the way to move – _to kiss_ – wrapping her fingers in his blond hair and tugging on the strands as she tasted his mouth, rolling her hips against him.

“Hervenn,” she moaned softly, kissing his cheek, her lips still remembering the shape of his scars even if they were no longer visible.

“Nínimeth,” he groaned, sliding the hem of her dress up her legs, the fire that coursed through her veins met at every turn by the ardour of her husband. Yes, her husband… whose hands were now squeezing her behind, his mouth devouring hers. Nínimeth smiled into the kiss, feeling the brightness of the bond that had connected them for millennia shining behind her eyes, stronger than it had been for so long, blasting the shadow away with pure light.

Trailing her hand down his chest, she gave up on the fastenings that kept him covered from her eyes, panting into his mouth as she untied the laces at his groin, filling her fingers with his exquisitely soft erection, feeling his flesh throb at her touch, sparks bursting in her mind when he gasped.

 

Wrapping his strong fingers around the curve of her arse, he lifted her, feeling the slick warmth of her envelop him in an instant, Nínimeth’s low hiss of pleasure resounding in his mind. He could feel her again, lively like a bonfire in his soul, wondering if she had always tasted this good, filled his hands this perfectly, if he had ever filled _her_ so completely.

She knew just how to move, rolling her hips in a rhythm neither of them had forgotten.

Thranduil groaned.

Feeling her smirk against his mouth, he bit at her lips, turning the kiss nearly savage with need. Swallowing her moans before he heard them, he bucked up against her with a growl, using one hand to speed up her movements.

Nínimeth whined, her tongue snaking into his mouth to play for a moment before he stole her breath with another hard thrust that made her clutch at his shoulders for balance, her nails pressing into the muscles through his shirt.

Thranduil’s free hand roamed up her body, sliding over the silk brocade of his robe and twining in the silk of her crimson hair. Tilting her head back, he attacked her throat with biting kisses, sucking the golden flesh into his mouth and making her moans and gasps spill out into the night.

“ _Hwin!_ ” she keened, tightening around him.

“ _Mine_ ,” he growled, thrusting hard into her, “ _my wife_.” He swore to himself that he would never again let her forget that fact, pressing the silent vow into her skin in the shape of a kiss turning purple. Nínimeth moaned, twisting her head to give him access to the spot on her neck she liked him biting. Thranduil obliged, smirking into her skin between kisses, feeling her shudder against him.

“ _Hwiniedir_ ,” she cried, her rhythm faltering slightly; a continuous stream of pleas falling from her lips, her hands wrapped in his long hair with a grip that bordered on pain. “ _My Hwin_.” Pulling his head up by the hair, she kissed him again, open-mouthed and breathless. “ _My husband_.” _I love you_.

For the first time in years he heard her voice in his mind, the ósanwë she so rarely practised filling his mind with joy, remorse, grief, and a love so strong it took his breath away, making him explode into a million pieces and pulling her along with him, floating in an eternity of starlight.

 

Thranduil groaned himself awake. Nínimeth’s low chuckle sounded in his ear.

 

When he stood, with no notion of whether they had sat for an hour or a hundred years, entwined in shared grief and love, Nínimeth kept her legs wrapped around his hips, and Thranduil was surprised to find that his ardour had not cooled at all. Neither had hers, he felt, the answering sparks of fire undimmed when he reached for her soul, tentatively, softly, testing the reinforced connection

Walking down the steps from the throne was a novel experience with his wife panting his name in his ear, every step punctured by a soft moan, but it only fanned the flames surging through his veins.

His hand still wrapped around the cheek of her arse, Thranduil smiled, setting off for his bedroom with long strides that had her moaning against his neck, sucking and licking at his bared skin and making it difficult to keep walking.

Pressing her against the wall beside the door, he thrust lightly into her softness, claiming her mouth once more.

“Bed, Hwiniedir,” she moaned breathlessly, scrambling for the door handle.

 

“Why are you wearing my robe, Nínimeth?” Thranduil asked, looking down at where he had just tossed his beloved onto his bed, enjoying the sight of her among his sheets and blankets and silently vowing never to let her sleep elsewhere again. Her bottom half was still exposed to his hungry gaze, but her top remained cloaked by the blue dress that matched his robes, something he had not noticed when he first saw her on the throne.

“It,” she paused, blushing, but did not shield herself from his gaze. “It smelled like you.” Her fingers drifted down, undoing the simple ties that held the robe on her smaller body, but Thranduil caught her hands, stilling their motion.

“Wear the robe,” he asked, hoarsely. “Only the robe.” The sight of _his_ garment covering her like this filled him with something like satisfaction, a possessive glee that suffused his soul. When she nodded, he released her hands, watching as she bared her flesh to him, tossing the dress on the floor beside the bed.

“Come to me, Hwin,” she said.

Falling from her lips like a plea, Thranduil was undone by the simple request.

He pounced.                    

 


	2. Morning After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like to see through Nínimeth's eyes, 

Their new – permanent – home in these large caves was a pleasantly constant temperature, no matter the weather outside.

Nínimeth had not truly appreciated that fact before, although waking from exhausted slumber to the sight of her husband stretched out on his front, every inch of his skin bared to her eyes, pale locks tumbling over his shoulders, made her suddenly grateful that there were no chill breezes to necessitate blankets. The soft light of pre-dawn lit the room gently, revealing his naked body in a study of pale hues she wanted to commit to memory, fearful that the shadows in her heart might rise up once more, make her deadened to the light of his love.

His arms were wrapped around a large red pillow, his face nearly buried in the soft thing. Drawing a lock of loose hair away from his face, her fingers trailed lightly down his shoulder, following the curve of his spine until they could dance across the curve of his arse. Part of her wanted to wake him with a kiss, but as she leaned in she felt unsure it would be welcomed; last night’s touches aside it had been so long – _the night before they joined the war in truth?_ – since they had shared the touches of lovers, and part of her felt fearful of rejection.

“Nínimeth…” he groaned, his eyes remaining closed, but a light smile played around his lips, giving her hope. One hand reached out, lines of worry appearing and disappearing in the next moment when his questing fingers found her waist, rolling unto his side and tugging her back into his arms.

Smiling to herself, Nínimeth fell back asleep, her last conscious thought one of gentle love, relaxing into her husband’s arms and feeling almost convinced that no Darkness could touch her world again.

 

 

Thranduil woke up happy, though it took him some time to realise why, his face buried in pleasantly scented hair. When the events of the previous night barged through his drowsy haze, his eyes snapped open, staring at the slender body in his arms.

“…Nínimeth…” he breathed, the exhalation of her name disturbing a lock of her crimson hair.

Running his fingers slowly through her hair, Thranduil basked in the feeling of having her back in his arms, her arm slung low across his waist and her leg wrapped around his thigh as though she too had needed to be as close as possible even in sleep.

_It was not a dream…_

Clutching at her, drawing her closer, he closed his eyes, feeling an overpowering sense of relief. Nuzzling into his chest, Nínimeth sighed softly, continuing to sleep, her soul an undimmed glow twined with his.

 

_Meanwhile:_

“Nínimeth is missing!” Avornien cried, bursting into the kitchens where those awake earliest were just getting started on lighting the fires for the morning’s baking. Bronwe – who had been regaling the plump baker Maeassel with stories of the new recruits under his command – looked up sharply.

“Missing?” he barked, getting to his feet. “What do you mean missing?” Nínimeth had – to his knowledge – been more akin to a ghost gently floating through the halls, garnering looks of pity and sympathy whenever she managed to leave her rooms – and always accompanied by her faithful handmaiden, who served as part guard, part caretaker for the elleth who had pushed away all other company or comfort, most days barely registering the presence of one of her oldest friends at all.

“She left yesterday evening – spurning my company – and she has not slept in her bed – I don’t know where she is!” Avornien, usually cool and aloof in her manner paced frantically.

“Have you searched for her?” Bronwe asked, dread silently pooling in his gut. He had hoped… prayed that she would return to herself – his oldest friend in the world would be broken by her loss, irreparably this time.

“All the places I could think to look,” Avornien nodded, biting her lip, “I’m… worried she might have slipped out…”

“You mean…” Maeassel whispered.

“No.” Bronwe would not accept Avornien’s unvoiced fear – Nínimeth was not so far gone that she would chose to _fade_ … was she? “I do not believe that. How was she the last time you saw her, and where did she go?” Getting to his feet, he put down the cup of tea Maeassel had served him.

“She was… odd, Captain,” Avornien admitted, “but somehow more herself than she has been since… _since_.” She swallowed hard. “She-she called for him, in her sleep, just before she woke.”

“For Thalion?” he asked, frowning.

“No…” Avornien whispered softly, “for _him_. For the King – _Thranduil_.” For a moment, Bronwe felt a surge of wild hope, but he pushed it away – hope meant little until he knew _where_ she was. “She was… disturbed, but not unhappy, I thought.”

“I’ll get the guard to sweep the Halls,” Bronwe said, “and send patrols into the forest.”

“And… the King?” Avornien asked quietly, wringing her hands and accepting the cup of tea Maeassel handed her distractedly, her brown eyes shiny with unshed tears.

“I will inform him,” Bronwe sighed, feeling a stab of pity for the handmaiden – Avornien seemed cold, but she was devoted to Nínimeth and although he felt she deserved some blame for the Queen’s disappearance, he was too kind to let her weather the full force of Hwiniedir’s inevitable fury at the news.

 

Thranduil did not know how long he had spent watching her face, noting the tiny signs of exhaustion that clung to her skin, making her appear so very fragile it made his heart hurt.

At the same time, he was still angry with her for abandoning him for seven years, the anger warring with the part of him that wanted to bask in the restored bond, gorging himself on her love – he had been starved for her for longer than he had thought he could ever bear, seeing her in passing but feeling none of the connection that had wound itself through his soul for more than two thousand years.

Looking at her crimson hair made him long to hear the voice of his son, drawing him into memories of that hair on a masculine face, Nínimeth’s mischievous laughter spilling from Thalion’s lips whenever he told a tall tale of one of his hunts. He remembered watching his son play with the children of the ellon he had loved, being an uncle to the twins even if he never admitted to his parents why he loved Arastor and Tuilinthel so much. It did not mean they had not _known_ , of course, watching him fall in love with Arasson, the pain of watching him happily wed to Cugweth nearly destroying their easy-going son, watching him grieve his beloved’s death in secret. And now Thalion himself had perished, defending the elleth he had considered his daughter in many ways, tearing apart their small family in the process. Thandir had fled north – intending to marry a bowyer from a village up there, which Thranduil had no issues with, but which made his twin brother scoff derisively – while Thonnon had brought his family to the Halls but remained aloof from both his parents.

He missed his sons with an intensity that left him breathless, made him clutch at Nínimeth’s hand, squeeze her fingers as tears for their losses made their way down his face.

“…Hwin…?” Lifting her head, Nínimeth looked up at him, blinking sleepily. Wordlessly, she rose, leaning against the large pillows he favoured – he had woken from a dream of her clutching one or the other more than once – and tugged on his hand until he moved, pressing his head against her soft chest and running her fingers through his hair. “I promise you,” she murmured, kiss his head, “we will all find our way through this grief. I am here, my love. I’m here…”

Thranduil did not mention the tears he felt falling on his hair, clutching her waist and burying his face in her soft skin, pretending – just for a moment – that she was right, that the world had not been irrevocably broken by the death of their firstborn.

 

“My King!” Bronwe called, barging through the door without knocking, “Nínimeth is missing – we’ve searched everywhere – and Avornien is-”

“Captain!” Nínimeth snapped sharply, her voice still wobbly with tears. Thranduil remained where he was, feeling no need to look at his oldest friend.

“…Nínimeth…” Bronwe breathed softly, staring at the two lounging on the bed.

“As you see, Bronwe,” Thranduil said, wincing at the hoarseness of his own voice, “my Queen is exactly where she is meant to be.” Nínimeth trailed her free hand through his hair, running lightly across his naked shoulder. Thranduil sighed, squeezing the hand he held and raising his head to smile at her. “With me.”

 _With you_ , she whispered across his soul, the smile she gave his still shadowed by grief but her eyes clear and soft with love when she looked at him.

 

The door closed silently, leaving them alone once more.

 

Bronwe walked towards the kitchens, not even aware of the tears trailing down his cheek, his smile so wide his cheeks ached with the strain.


End file.
